


Parisian

by doomcanary



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis POV, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Toppy D'Artagnan, mild hint of piss-related kink, woohoo oiled man nipples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really are from Gascony, aren't you?" - but Aramis will make a Parisian of d'Artagnan yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allydenise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allydenise/gifts).



Aramis is intrigued by this passionate, headstrong boy. So full of honour and high ideals, and yet so curiously naïve.

“You need a place to stay?” he asks in the inn. D'Artagnan misses the undertone completely.

“I have somewhere.”

“In the arms of Madame Bonacieux?”

Not a flicker. “She's a married woman.” In fact the boy almost looks piqued on her behalf.

“You really are from Gascony, aren't you,” Aramis quips. A certain disappointment curls through him; but then he supposes the boy must be tired. One's first real fight is a profound experience.

And he really is from Gascony, after all.

He cannot help but laugh the next day when d'Artagnan has to borrow five sous to get himself breakfast.

“And what have we learnt from this, my friend?” he enquires, eyes sparkling with merriment.

“Not to play Porthos at cards,” says the boy with a wry smile.

“We'll make a Parisian of you in no time.” Aramis claps him on the shoulder and lets his hand linger, just a moment.

 

After the whole Vadim incident the boy becomes an unspoken fourth member of their trio, simply by virtue of being quite so willing to do something suicidally brave. For them, of course, but also just in general. He's a good fit for their natural delinquency.

Without Adele to distract him Aramis has plenty of time to consider and plan; he has no wish to upset the lad, after all such things are not to every man's taste, but there's something in the guarded openness d'Artagnan shows to them, and only to them, that gives him encouragement.

Athos, of course, figures out what he's up to within two days.

“You will not be content until you have debauched all of Paris,” he says to Aramis one morning as they amble away from parade. In all fairness Aramis had indeed been admiring d'Artagnan's limber stride.

“Not all of Paris,” replies Aramis. “Just the one upon whom I have my eyes.”

“And how fares the object of this yet more ignoble crusade?”

“So unschooled in the subtler ways of love he might as well have a head made of solid wood.” Aramis sighs. “I'm beginning to think I'll have to provide a demonstration.”

 

In fact the quip gives him an idea. The next time they have a day's leave he quite deliberately gets d'Artagnan drunk, and equally deliberately steers them “home” through the Rue Gaîté (which is not, of course, strictly speaking its proper name). Lanterns shaded amber, rose pink and dim scarlet peek from the windows and there are many, many faces and bodies on display; from buxom and fresh-faced lasses to fine-featured “ladies” with cruelty in their eyes, and more besides. Headily handsome boys lounge in tight-fitting breeches and shirts open to expose their narrow chests. A massive, muscular man who bears a certain resemblance to Porthos seems to be both doorman and advertisement for one particular house. Aramis suppresses a delighted shiver; his bare chest is oiled, showing small, dark nipples he wants nothing more than to bite.

“What do you think?” he murmurs to d'Artagnan. “Shall we stop?”

“Mmm... maybe,” says d'Artagnan, who is in that pleasant, pliant state of drunkenness Aramis has so often found advantageous in the past.

“Ah, but where?” he asks coyly, breathing close to d'Artagnan's ear.

“Somewhere I can piss, for starters.”

Romance truly is not dead.

“Down that alley then, and for god's sake hold yourself up on the wall.”

D'Artagnan disappears into the alley and doesn't come out for quite some time. Aramis's eye idly roves the crowd for a while; then, growing concerned, he follows the boy.

“I thought you said you needed to piss,” he mutters into d'Artagnan's ear, making him start a little, muzzily.

“I really do,” says d'Artagnan. “But, er, I'm having a little... trouble.”

There's a window open into the alley and the sounds of a couple in flagrante are clearly audible. Either he is a very good lover or she is a very expensive whore – Aramis genuinely can't tell if her pleasure is faked or not. Aramis glances down; the boy's fly is open, but his cock (and how pretty it is, as slender and elegant as d'Artagnan himself) is standing at an angle that has little to do with relieving himself at all.

“I find,” he murmurs, half-turning so that his back is to the alley mouth and his cloak obscuring d'Artagnan's immodest stance, “that imagining the Cardinal naked is an excellent aid at times like this.”

D'Artagnan snorts. “God,” he says. “He'd look like a dried fish.”

“Oh yes. And a man of his age as well – I wonder how far down his balls hang under those robes.”

D'Artagnan is overcome by a fit of giggling, propping himself up on the wall as his shoulders shake.

“The only thing worse than that I can think of,” he says in between snorts, “is imagining him writhing around with the King.”

Aramis is shocked into silence for a second before he guffaws. “That must be treason,” he says. D'Artagnan giggles again.

“Oh, but really – _aah._ ” Something has had the desired effect; Aramis hears the splatter of piss against the alley wall. There is a long moment of silence as the boy relieves himself.

“Come to think of it,” says Aramis, and turns himself to the wall.

He'd almost given up on the idea of seduction; d'Art was just a drunken provincial boy, no more inclined to Greek love than the next man (unless the next man was that incurable bastion of propriety Treville). So when he realises that d'Artagnan is no longer emptying his bladder but hasn't moved, he is startled to glance at his face and see the boy's dark eyes fixed on Aramis's hand where it holds his prick.

His eyes flick upwards and meet Aramis's. Aramis holds his gaze.

“Funny,” says the boy. “Never really watched anyone pissing before.”

“Be my guest,” says Aramis.

D'Artagnan watches him till he's done, then clears his throat and looks away. Aramis doesn't let the opportunity slide; he cups his hand around d'Artagnan's groin, and feels him half hard.

They lock eyes. Gently, Aramis slides his thumb over the shape under his hand. D'Artagnan shifts himself closer; Aramis can taste his wine-scented breath in the air.

This isn't a time for words. Instead Aramis slips his free hand into d'Artagnan's cloak, finds his waist and pulls them flush together. His own hardness presses into d'Artagnan's thigh. He feels the boy turn his head into the hollow of his neck, breathe in Aramis's scent. He nuzzles into the hollow beneath d'Artagnan's jaw.

The boy's hand finds his hip, pulls them close. He begins to move against Aramis's hand. Aramis presses himself into their contact. God. They're so close to discovery – one wrong move and they could hang. His cock swells further at the thought.

“Take me back to your rooms,” says d'Artagnan, voice rough in Aramis's ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which d'Artagnan is just *full* of surprises. And Aramis is full of something else.

They stumble and jostle on the narrow stairs, as any two drunken soldiers might; but d'Artagnan presses himself against Aramis's back while he unlocks the door, and as soon as they're inside turns to push him against it and grind them together once more. Aramis takes a steely grip on his presence of mind just long enough to relock the door, then lets go.

D'Artagnan smells wonderful, warm and musky. The leather of his doublet is soft with wear and adds its own richness to the scent Aramis inhales. He nips at Aramis's neck, and Aramis returns the gesture with a long graze of his lips down to the boy's sharp collarbone. D'Artagnan's hand finds Aramis's erection, and grips him through the cloth of his breeches. Aramis lets his head fall back and shamelessly pushes into d'Artagnan's grip. His hands come up to his belt – sword, dagger and all hit the floor with a clatter – and move on to unbutton his doublet.

D'Artagnan comes up for air and leans away to quickly shed his own doublet. They are left in shirt sleeves. Aramis's hands slide over the smooth planes of d'Artagnan's chest, around his side to cup the solid muscle of his shoulder; he snatches a brief kiss from the boy's startled lips and begins to pull his shirt free.

D'Artagnan grabs his wrists and pins his arms to the door over his head. Aramis gasps. With his free hand the boy pulls open the ties of Aramis's shirt, pulls the collar aside and mouths down his chest. His dark face is utterly focused, a storm of intensity. Aramis had thought many times of all that Gascon passion, but he'd never dreamed it would unleash itself on him like this.

There go the buttons on his breeches – he hears one of them skitter away across the floor – and now d'Artagnan's hand is on him. He makes a breathy sound of encouragement and thrusts into the heat of his grip.

D'Artagnan bites his earlobe. “I want to fuck you,” he says.

_Wow_ .

D'Artagnan notices his surprise, and his delicious mouth curves into the most wicked smile.

“Really,” he murmurs, breath ghosting down Aramis's cheek, and oh that _voice_ , so light, so gentle, so _innocent_ \- “for a sophisticated Parisian you can be very naïve.”

“For a country boy you're pretty thoroughly corrupted,” Aramis manages to return.

“I like to finish a job once I begin.”

“You'd better let go of my wrists, then.”

“Really? Why's that?”

“Because I know where the oil is and you don't.”

Corrupt, perhaps, but still young and impetuous; Aramis hasn't quite lost the fencing match yet, he thinks. D'Artagnan glares, half amused and half lustful, and slowly lets his wrists slide down. Aramis steps sideways, sliding around his Gascon, leaving it till the last moment to back away and out of his personal space. The scant inch of air between their lips seems to sing with the tension that thrums in Aramis's blood.

He discards his shirt, leaves the bedroom door wide open. Turns back twirling the oil between his fingertips to see d'Artagnan leaning in the doorway.

“Well?” 

“Ask me for it.”

Aramis's fingers still. He watches the Gascon boy carefully. The chill air makes his nipples tighten. D'Artagnan closes the space between them with a single stride. Long limbs, night-black hair and fathomless eyes fill Aramis's view. 

“I said,” he says softly, “ask me.”

Aramis leans in, breathes his next word right into d'Artagnan's mouth.

“No,” he says.

That earns him the first real kiss they've shared, as d'Artagnan's hands come to his cheeks and his tongue drives into Aramis's mouth. His calves hit the edge of the bed and they both go down, wrestling for purchase against each other even as they kiss as if starved. D'Artagnan has a slight advantage of height and reach – barely more than an inch but it's enough – and Aramis ends up beneath him. He pulls d'Artagnan down for another kiss, longer, slower, seeking that simmering passion he loves so much in the boy. It fires, like a slow-match glowing brighter in the wind, and they are grinding against each other again.

“So fuck me,” he challenges. “Take what you want.”

D'Artagnan's full lips quirk and he reaches for the oil, abandoned in their preoccupation with each other. He lays the bottle against Aramis's side and reaches to slide his breeches and smallclothes down. Aramis shifts a little, lifting his hips, but otherwise does not assist. D'Artagnan is still almost fully clothed. Lazily, Aramis tugs the laces of his sweat-damp shirt undone. 

D'Artagnan kneels above Aramis then and pulls his shirt off, and Aramis lets out a hiss of appreciation; the boy is perfection. So lean, yet muscled; the moonlight traces his shoulder, runs down to his hip. D'Artagnan pours a little oil into his hand, and Aramis lets his head fall back and lifts his knees.

His fingers are long, cool against Aramis's entrance, and firm as they circle him. He can't help but move in response to the touch, and his reward is a blunt fingertip that pushes inside. The boy chooses then to lick a stripe up the underside of his cock. Aramis shivers and that finger slides further in. Another joins it and he closes his eyes, breathing through the burn as d'Artagnan stretches him; and a third. He's as ready as he'll be; he rocks down, brushing those fingertips across the sweet spot inside.

D'Artagnan withdraws his hand, and then the blunt head of his cock is against Aramis. The slow slide and drag of flesh on flesh as he pushes in is the focus of Aramis's world. He is not expecting the tender kiss that falls upon his lips as the boy sheaths himself fully inside.

D'Artagnan moves; slowly, torturously slowly. Aramis palms his shoulders, locks his knees around d'Artagnan's back, drawing him deeper in. He feels his body relax and d'Artagnan picks up the pace. Rarely is it so good to be taken; Aramis luxuriates against the coverlet, breathing in soft gasps. D'Artagnan pauses to lean back and hook his hands into Aramis's knees; he pushes them further forward, curling Aramis's spine, and with his next thrust Aramis gives a cry. D'Artagnan seems to lose control a little then, fucking him hard in long swift strokes. Then he suddenly stops, and braces his arms either side of Aramis's head. There's a long silent moment in which they share a heated look, then d'Artagnan slides himself free and Aramis is being manhandled onto his knees.

And then – the slide of cock into his flesh again, and d'Artagnan leaning down over his back, using his height to angle down and drive across that sweet spot again and again. Aramis drops his chest onto the bed and sobs his ecstasy. His cock is so hard something aches in his belly, low down. He reaches downwards but is stopped by d'Artagnan's hand – and then that same hand wraps around his length, slick with oil, and begins to stroke it tight and hard.

Aramis couldn't say how long the moments between then and the white heat of climax last; he is hardly a person, but a bundle of senses stretched around d'Artagnan's cock, drawn taut between it and his hand. His body seems to shrink away, leaving only the overwhelming fullness, the blind hot slide into him and against him, until it becomes everything he knows and he tumbles into the pleasure as into a wave.

 

When he comes to he thinks he must have been moaning, if not screaming; his throat feels raw and his voice will surely be hoarse. D'Artagnan is still inside him, softening now, his breath warm gusts across his cooling back. Aramis pushes himself up onto his hands; slowly d'Artagnan eases out. He twists and half-sits on the bed to look at his Gascon boy, his body still tender and humming with sensation. D'Artagnan is if anything even more beautiful now, shipwrecked with pleasure, meeting Aramis's gaze with guarded eyes.

Aramis holds nothing back, but smiles at d'Artagnan with his heart in his face. 

“Stay,” he says. “Be a little Parisian for a night.”

The kiss d'Artagnan draws him into is more tender still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this kind of ran away with me... who knew this pairing had so much to say? I loved writing this, I hope you all love reading it as well :)


End file.
